


binary star

by butterflyswimmer



Category: Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | Higurashi When They Cry
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Short, Slice of Life, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyswimmer/pseuds/butterflyswimmer
Summary: He doesn’t want her hands to be cold, but he doesn’t tell her that.





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You wouldn’t think it was only mid-afternoon - but soon the day would be over. Snow began to fall, stopped, whimsical, just dusting the pavement before changing its mind. Keiichi’s fingertips were numb under the weight of shopping bags and freezing air as he made his way back to his bike, walking as quickly as he was able to without slipping. It’s only by chance that he catches her - a familiar silhouette as he glances toward the park.

 

He’s making his way over without having thought about it, and it’s only as he reaches her side of the road that he stops. He can see better from here - a single street lamp illuminating the swing where she’s seated. Apparently this grey square was one of the places the children of Okinomiya came to play - it amazed him how much the place differed from Hinamizawa. Maybe that was what had stopped him in his tracks - a strange scene, not to see her lit by the burning embers of a sunset that spilled over the edges of the sky, or the dappled sunlight of the trees of Satoko’s mountains in the heart of summer.

Harsh, artificial illumination. Concrete, buildings. She was alone.

Or maybe it was that, or else the silence, and the look on her face - she turns, now, profile finally cast in light. Her expression is as impossible to read as still water.

Yes, he’s wondering if it’s Mion - and then there’s movement, and a voice. His name - once for herself, perhaps, then louder. And from that, he knows.

 

It’s Mion - sitting in the cold, alone, and in her usual attire. The only difference is she’s actually thrown the hoodie on over her shirt. He’d commented on it once only to face some quip about city boys. And so they remain - he pulls his scarf down to talk to her. She looks like she’s willing the seasons to rearrange themselves. She was visiting her family. He was running errands for his parents.

 

He turns his attention to the scenery - Okinomiya is quiet, now, and peaceful. A different kind to Hinamizawa - the peaceful that’s families gathering in their homes at the end of the day behind frosted windows emitting warm light and cars traversing the roads to do the same. It’s the peaceful that’s quiet shopfronts and enough snow on the ground to draw shapes in with the tip of his shoe. She poises her foot ready to stamp them out until he wrestles her back into place, suddenly laughing, feeling his cheeks again. It’s the kind of peaceful where they settle, after that - silent, but smiling.

He observes her fingers on the metal of the swing, says he’ll get them drinks from the nearby vending machine. It’s only because he doesn’t want her hands to be cold, but he doesn’t tell her that.

 

Once he’s back, he leans against the frame to face her. They talk about meaningless things, the way they always do. The company is enough. And once those have run out, his mind drifts to the same things they always seem to when they’re alone together, with the air uncluttered by chaos and bravado. Mion was somebody whose presence only filled the room as much as it occupied people, after all. Alone, like this, he found she liked to listen to him talk. That’s why, when he fell into thought, she didn’t pick up the ends of the conversation - simply let it settle in the sharp winter air, like only observing the last few licks of flame before fire became ash. 

The one thing that didn’t change was the smile on her face, small, serene. Eyes cast downward, cheeks blazing from the cold. Both hands cradling the can he’d given, holding it close to her chest. She did that, when he gave her things, he’d noticed.

 

It wasn’t like this with the others. He didn’t think so much. Maybe it was to fill her silence. He counts the centimeters between them, tries to imagine her body temperature - but he can’t. All he can do is stand and watch her fingertips regain colour. Small things.

 

“Are you going back to Hinamizawa?”

“I was going to, but… I’ll probably just stay here for the night. It’s late,” and then, “don’t you need to get going?” She meets his gaze, troubled, then something else. “Ah, I mean…” She bites her lip. It’s cracked.

“Yeah. I’d better do that.”

She stands, after placing the empty can carefully on the ground. Moves as though to step forward, before she’s discerned her own purpose. “Um… Be careful, okay? The roads will be icy…” Nothing more she can say, or do. Hands go to forearms, fingers digging into surely goosebumped skin. He watches.

“Yeah, don’t worry.” He’s unwinding his scarf, lifting it over his head. “Here. You’ll get a cold.” 

And now, the hands go up. “No, no! The house is five minutes away! I don’t need it!” A step backwards, a buffer. A step forwards - him.

“Honestly…” He loops the scarf again, places it gently over her head. She whines like a toddler. When she pops out of the other side she looks strangely dwarfed, hands clutching bundles of the material, pout evident in the glow of the streetlamps overhead.

“I don’t need it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give it back to me next time we see each other.”

He’s already turning away, raising a hand in farewell, picking his bike up from the wall. It’s not until he’s walked himself to the road, out of earshot of protests, that he affords himself a final look back.

She’s standing out of the direct light, now - and he can’t see her face, only a silhouette blurred by a bundle of wool, standing to watch him leave, framed against a sky of endless stars. Or so he might’ve noticed - if he ever seemed to notice anything else, when it was just them.

 

The “see you,” she whispers is too quiet - muffled, now. And for some time she doesn’t know whether to stand or sit, walk home or stay, as Okinomiya submits itself entirely to night. But when she’s found her way back to her mind, and there are more streetlamps awake than people, she begins the walk back, watching the prints her footsteps make in the undisturbed snow. And as she slowly traverses the streets, there’s plenty of time to worry about whether Keiichi’s made it home okay - and if it were any other night, she’d probably call the Maebara residence under the pretense of homework confusion or spontaneous club plans. But then she breathes in, buries her face in the scarf, smiles - and somehow, worry is impossible. And somehow, she knows he’s okay. And somehow, as it always had been, when they’d remember that night in time to come, it would be a patchwork of red fingertips, shapes in the snow, discreet smiles, warm scents.

 

She doesn’t give the scarf back, he doesn’t ask for it, and neither of them ever remember the way the stars had looked that night, lighthouses in an ink sea.


End file.
